


The Price of Freedom

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17946500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: Near death and fear bring the lost Malfoy heir to England.  Lady Hermione Granger makes it almost painful to stay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Regency AU: Being part of Napoleon's elite was an enviable position until June, 1815. What is the Malfoy heir supposed to do now, stranded in God-forsaken Britain?
> 
>  
> 
> Alpha love to my fest co-host In Dreams. Beta hearts to LightofEvolution. Cheerleading credit to MHCalamas. Adore you all!

_Stand by your Emperor_ , his father had preached at his son, bold and prideful. And, so it was that Draco, barely a man in his own right, was sent into battle under Bonaparte's flag.

The Malfoy family has enjoyed a rich and lavish existence under the self-proclaimed emperor's rule. True, it had waned when the man was deposed and exiled, but, all in all, they had still faired well. His father, Lucius, had slithered his way into the good graces of the new powers that be. The man had claimed to have acted only with pragmatic and loyal wishes for the strength and sovereignty of France. After, when Napoleon had returned, almost as though from the dead, the Malfoy patriarch had shed his traitorous cloak and offered up his only heir to military ranks.

Draco, less than enthusiastic to say the least, had agreed, as was his duty.

Now, he finds himself laying half beneath the corpse of one of his fellows, a blow to Draco's head making it quite difficult to do much of anything other than silently curse his father's wretched name. He praises the heavens for his mess tin, stowed beneath his hat, that absorbed much of the blow. If he had carried it elsewhere, Draco would be as lifeless as poor Monsieur Delacour above him.

To England, he has decided, perspective being strangely clear while lying in the muck. His family, separated by war though they have been, has relatives there. Thoros Nott, he has always been told, an old name with Scandinavian roots, has very little loyalty to any but blood. Lucius had oft spoken of his cousin fondly, though he has not seen him since they were young men, no older than Draco is now.

If he can escape this hell, the smell of sulfur and blood seeping into his skin, Draco will repatriate to England. Let his father rue the day he thought to use Draco to cloak his own inconsistent allegiances. His dear mother, he will miss, but he knows her love will not shield him from death nor his father's ambitions.

As the enemy soldiers begin to rifle through the dead and dying, searching for prisoners of this lost war, he slips carefully away.

There are meager weeks ahead, subsiding on theft and charity, but he finally reaches the shore. Only then, Britain merely a jaunt across the water, does he breathe easier. Taking one last look at his country, Draco Malfoy climbs aboard a small vessel to find his new home.

—-

"Oh, delightful. I see you intend to be boring today."

Hermione Granger glances up from her book to find a shadow blocking the sun, the silhouette of a most irritating man looming above her in the soft grass. "Theodore. I trust you're here to save me from myself, then?"

In a most ungentlemanly fashion, her dear friend plops himself onto the ground beside her, careful to keep a modest distance. He grins at her and plucks the book from her hands. " _Mister Nott_ , if you don't mind!" She makes a grab to retrieve her novel only to have him lean away.

Holding it above her head, he reads with pomp and exaggeration, "Pride and Prejudice, a novel by Jane Austen." Levelling her with a look, he hands it back with a sigh. "Again? Really, Miss Granger, at least do me the service of reading a new book if this is how you are determined to spend our picnics."

She snorts a bit, ever unashamed to be comfortable in his presence. No one understands her quite like Theodore Nott. She had once believed it almost regretful he had never sought her hand in courtship. Though, if she is honest, and Hermione is rarely anything else, she has since discovered she has no interest in him in such a way either. This easy friendship they share is her most treasured possession, and she is grateful it was never traded for a dalliance.

"Not  _our_  picnic, you know," she corrects. "Simply the Grangers and the Notts, comparing their gold and their manners. Such a poor use of time."

Hermione sniffs with a bit of judgemental disdain and makes a great show of opening her book back to her place. Theo allows her to fall once again into her literary world, simply sharing the summer day with her, watching their families partake in various games of archery and shuttlecock.

After a time, she glances up, feeling eyes upon her, to find her gaze locked with a pair of eyes as grey as the clouds of winter.

"Have you a new…" she searches for a possibility, finally landing upon, "stable hand?" No, she reconsiders, he is dressed far too appropriate. "Footman?"

Curious, Theodore looks up and finds her gaze on the newest member of his household. "Oh, yes. Quite. Mister Mal-...that is, Draco is the boy's name. He is my personal attendant."

"Skinny," she says, baldly. "Has he been punished for poor work?"

"No," he denies," he's only just arrived into our employ."

Studying the boy… young man really… Hermione is glad that he had looked away. Those intense and cold eyes had been intimidating in a way she is not accustomed. A confident and daring young woman, the only Granger child lets very little leave her wrong-footed. The gaze of this "Draco" is one of those small numbered things.

His clothes are well made, but seem tailored to a broader build. He is not unkempt, but there is a haunted and jittery aspect to his features she does not see in polite society. It is a safe assumption he is of worse than common birth. Perhaps from the lowest of Britain's economy, she wonders what must have become of his family; wonders how Theo came upon him.

"It seems the games have reached their end."

She snaps her attention quickly back to her friend, momentarily caught up as she had been with his intriguing new staff. "And to think, I was able to enjoy an entire afternoon without a bow or racket touching my hands."

"Yes, your ever so delicate hands," he smirks. "Appropriate only for care of  _very_  boring books and-"

She backhands him lightly on his upper arm, terribly familiar and entirely inappropriate, but he only laughs and finishes, "and  _that_ precisely. Books and your constant attacks upon my person."

Theo stands, brushing off his trousers, and offers a hand to help her rise. "Come on then, Miss Granger. Shall we see what Harold has prepared for dinner then?"

Accepting his hand, she rises and follows Theodore, joining with their parents and cousins and following the throng into the Nott's main gallery. She spares one glance back to the grey-eyed servant, and is jarred to find him watching her once again.

—-

After dinner that evening, Hermione is escorted, as per usual at these affairs, to entertain the room on the piano forte. The room is respectful and quiet as her fingers dance across the keys, even the staff sneaking glances at her as they go about their duties to the guests. One in particular watches her from a doorway, his gaze focused. Had she been inclined to ignore his glance that afternoon, or decided perhaps she had misinterpreted the look as something more than curiosity, she is now convinced his attention is laid firmly upon his intended target.

—-

Draco sidles up to his cousin, trying to maintain the illusion that he is of the house staff, while somehow managing not to do any actual labor. It is true that he is accustomed to being in charge of his own team of servants, but he would not trade this freedom for a King's ransom.

His hosts, thus far, have been happy to welcome him into their lives, the promise of the Malfoy fortune more than enough reward. The Malfoy line in France being virtually at its end, the only heir presumed dead, the Notts will benefit greatly upon the death of Lucius. In return, they will treat Draco as family within the home, allowing him the pretense of anonymity outside its walls.

Facing his father, the potential of being expected once again to fight for France…? No. He'd sooner live with Theodore, in whom he has found a friend, sharing a laugh and bantering with biting tongues. His secret is safe with the two masters of the house.

The downside is the lack of social stimulation while simultaneously being forced into these numerous events. Do they spend even one week keeping to themselves? If it happens, Draco has not yet been witness to it.

Tonight is a dinner, maybe five families in attendance. They are currently all milling about, enjoying an early reception with light hors d'oeuvres and drinks. Not one for large crowds, Draco has found Theo at the outskirts of the room, watching the girl with curled hair as she is introduced to an older woman by a lady he presumes to be her mother.

"Is that one in line to be the next lady of Nott Manor, then?"

Theo startles, looking at Draco then realizing to whom he refers. "Oh, heavens, no. Miss Hermione Granger is far too lovely to take as a wife. It would only ruin the easy rapport we share."

"Only to bed then?" Draco asks, slightly bemused, and is rewarded with a rather dark look in return.

"I'll not have you begin rumors or put forth any  _behaviors_ ," he responds with purpose, "that might damage her reputation."

Draco is a bit taken aback, not usually seeing a sterner side of Theo. "Apologies. Maybe, then, you would elaborate? If she is not for bed nor marriage, why do you spend so much time in her company?"

"Because I enjoy it," he says back, nonplussed, as if such a sentiment is quite normal. "We have always spent time together. I hope I am fortunate enough that might never change."

Draco personally thinks that a naive hope. Someday, a gentleman will find himself taken by her delicate features and her somewhat untamed hair, curls beckoning and seeking freedom from the pins that hold them. He will find himself captured by dark eyes and listening to her honest laugh from afar, wondering what has given her such joy. He will see her alone, reading a book while her family and friends enjoy conversation and games, and he will wonder what has her so enraptured; what has snared her mind away from the frivolity of her peers.

He thinks, if he had a family name for himself, that gentleman could have been him.

But that isn't possible as long as he would like to remain free and safe. His life is comfortable enough without his own wealth, and no woman, regardless that her skin, the colour of milk, beckons to be caressed, would be worth finding himself once again lying amongst still-warm corpses.

So, he doesn't respond, watching instead as Theo drifts over to Miss Granger's side, inserting himself into the conversation as a brother might. He leaves Draco to shoulder a small amount of envy as Theo leads her to the dining room, his hand lightly held to her back.

—-

Hermione has the frequent pleasure,  _his_  words, of Theodore's company. The Grangers and the Notts holiday together, host parties and various forms of merriment together, and generally exist in each other's spheres more often than not. Both families had at some point entertained the notion that Hermione and Theo might one day wed, but both of the family heirs had denied the desire for such a union. Young and with many options, they had not been forced to consider one another and enjoy a friendship built upon years of memories, uncomplicated by more intimate considerations.

Following the summer picnic, the Grangers arrived within a week for a lavish event, a dance to welcome the acquaintances from Scotland.

Hermione dons a modest gown of soft lavender, her sleeves never too puffed, nor her skirts too frilled. If not for her mother's insistence that she dress well, Hermione would much prefer simple fashions. As is, she lost the battle against the feathered hair adornment, and had promptly whispered to Theo, "I look a trumped up pigeon," after she was introduced to the room.

She allowed her father to walk her about the room, her hand laid upon his sleeve, and met some of the guests of the house.

"Master Slughorn, sir. You are looking well." Hermione's father had greeted the older gentleman and proceeded to enlighten Hermione on the successes and esteem of the Scottish scholar. While she had been impressed by his acumen, he'd seemed a rather weak, simpering sort, and she was quick to find her escape, citing a need for the powder room, and dashed from the receiving hall to the distant west wing.

An hour or more has passed, and Hermione is enjoying the solitude she has found in the Nott library. She's relaxing in a most unladylike manner, her leg brought over to dangle from the arm of a fireside, and loving every moment of her small rebellion. She turns a page in  _Oroonoko,_  but starts when a voice, lightly accented, breaks the silence.

"What are you reading, if I may?"

With a gasp, Hermione quickly adjusts her legs and rights her skirt, cheeks going crimson. "I'll thank you not to scare me so!" A more in depth tirade is on her tongue, but she loses her voice when her gaze lands on those now-familiar tempest grey eyes. "Oh, hello. Draco, is it?"

The man grins. Oh, he is a dangerous thing, she can tell. No smile should bring such devastation. "It is. I'm honored, Lady Granger, you give me the consideration of remembering."

There is a moment of silence before she realizes he had asked her a question. "Oh. The book. It is titled  _Oroonoko_. Are you familiar?" She hardly expects a man of his station to have read it.

The man… servant, she reminds herself...wrinkles his nose. "My father never much approved of that book."

She masks the surprise that his father was learned, instead settling on a bit of bristling on behalf of the book.

"Because it was written by a woman?" she challenges, ready to take up a gauntlet. She may not hold the power in this world she feels she is due, but Hermione Granger will not allow a servant to trod upon her gender without contest.

"Not at all. It was more he did not appreciate the notion that no man might be beholden to another."

Hermione frowns at him. "Odd sort of opinion from a commoner."

Draco shrugs and glances away, but then he counters with, "Odd sort of book for an heiress to be hiding away reading at a ball."

She feels like maybe she should be offended. Indignant. But she can't seem to dredge up anything but amusement. "Touché," she says through a grin. Cocking her head to the side, she ponders, "It seems to me you would have some tasks to be completed, such a large gathering in process."

One blonde eyebrow cocks at her. "I did not hear a question, yet you seem to be seeking an answer."

"Merely observation. Perhaps you were looking for work to occupy you?"

That dangerous grin widens, and Hermione suspects she is playing a game she might not know how to win. "Have you a task for me then, Miss Granger?"

She glances about the room, buying herself a moment to find a clever answer, to decide if she needs to volley back in kind or put an end to the game.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to return this book to its home? It was on a perilously high shelf, you see, and you seem to have considerable height on me."

With confident strides, he crosses the room to her and offers his hand, palm up. "If you would be so kind as to direct me to the appropriate shelf?"

Laying her gloved palm across his own, she allows Draco to assist her to rise. Standing together, she has the briefest moment to study his features. His stance is proud and his face chiseled and appealing. He looks every bit the Lord of a manor, regardless she knows he is not. To say he is pleasing to the eye is a gross misuse of the sizeable vocabulary Hermione boasts.

"This way," she says quietly but hesitates another moment before she turns away, a shuddering breath leaving her lungs as she crosses the room. "Just there." She points to an empty bit of shelving, between two other older works.

It is no accident that she does not move away, ensuring that Draco reach over her head, his long arm extending and bringing his chest close to hers, as he places the book on the high shelf. His arm drops once complete, but he does not back away either.

"Miss Granger," he begins, speaking low though only the books can hear. Her breath is trapped in her lungs, eyes wide as she waits for whatever is to come.

"There you are!"

Draco and Hermione both step away, careful not to jump or rush lest they seem more suspicious. Theo approaches them both, and Hermione is not sure which of them he was searching for.

"Miss Granger, you mother and father asked me to locate you. They are about to take their leave."

"Oh," she says, still having difficulty with her own breath. "Yes. Right then. I was just returning a book."

Her friend smirks at her. "Yes, I can see that. Had you forgotten the general order of the alphabet and required my man's assistance?"

Hermione eyes flash toward Draco before she mumbles, "It was up rather high."

Some sort of look passes between the men. Hermione can't, nor does she think she wants to, decipher it. She follows Theodore from the room, feeling a churning of elation and dread at what that interaction had begun.

—-

Hermione has no lack of interactions happening across the mysterious Draco with his accented English and piercing eyes. Their next meeting is much the same. He finds her at the Nott stables, visiting her very favorite of their prize stallions. Helios accepts her apple and nuzzles her hand, fond and gentle in spite of his massive size. She pets his broad nose, his warm breath pulsing from his nostrils as she does.

"Are you an equestrian, Miss Granger?"

She startles, but only just, nearly expecting him to make an appearance. Glancing his direction, he is approaching from the run, the sun at his back and blinding Hermione terribly. She reaches a hand to shield her eyes. "Hardly, sir. I adore them, of course. Respectable creatures. Though I regret I am much more comfortable with my feet on the ground."

He nods at her, finally entering into the shadows of the stable so she might drop her hand from her eyes. "He seems to have taken a liking to you."

Hermione glances back at the horse and laughs lightly. "As he should. I've been smuggling him apples for years now. Helios knows who his friends are… Do you not, darling?" She directs the last to the horse, patting his neck gently. When she looks back, Draco is studying her.

"You are different than other ladies I have met."

She isn't entirely clear how to take his comment. A compliment or criticism? She can't know, and so she simply asks. "Is that something I should take kindly or with affront?"

The man grins at her. That devastating grin of his. Surely she will build an immunity to it with increased frequency…

"I certainly did not mean it in offense," he answers.

"Yet, not entirely to flatter?" She dares a soft smile of her own, though has no illusion it will affect him as much as his seems to affect her.

"You do not strike me as a woman that might respond to flattery, Miss Granger. Or have I misread? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

At that, she actually snorts, immediately covering her face in embarrassment. It's not uncommon to laugh in earnest when in the sole company of Theodore, but she usually manages a better facade amongst others.

"I see why Theodore enjoys you so," he says, grin turning into something lopsided and boyish before her eyes.

"Oh?" she questions. "And why is that, might I ask."

Draco shrugs at her, stepping a bit closer. "As I had mentioned: you are unlike other ladies I've had the misfortune to know. Not many would be moved to honest mirth by Shakespearean recitation."

"And I must say," she can't help but mention, "you are uncommonly engaging for one of your station. Well read and quick. Also, I note, not cowed by your employers. 'Theo' is it? You speak rather familiar of your master…"

"Are you offended on his behalf?" There it is again; that bemused expression. Hermione is not sure if she finds his candor refreshing or unnerving. Likely, it is both.

"However Mister Nott allows you to address him is of no concern to me. Simply making an observation."

"Ah, I see." She thinks that will be the end of it, a pause leaving her looking for something to say, when he continues, "So you are observing me, then? Now it's my chance to be flattered."

"That is not what I meant at all," she huffs.

"No? Pity. I was rather enjoying the notion you might have noticed me."

He has taken another step. When, she can't say. All Hermione knows is that one moment he was innocently across the yard, while now he is looking down his beautifully sculpted nose at her, proximately much as it had been in the library the week before.

She lets out a slow breath, feeling the rate of her heart picking up within her chest. "You are dangerous, sir. I am certain of it."

He smiles broad, all perfect teeth and a dimple inset into his cheek. "Terribly dangerous, my lady. Has Theo not warned you away from me?"

"Should he have?" she asks quietly, barely awareo of her surroundings, Helios nickering behind her sounding like he is quite far away.

His hand in her peripheral is rising slowly toward her face, plucking one of her difficult curls, then placing it carefully behind the shell of her ear. His fingertip graze against her skin, trailing her jaw as he retracts. "I'm not all that threatening, am I? Harmless as your Helios."

"Helios is a beast," she counters. "Powerful, regardless that he allows me to caress him."

"We beasts only indulge in what the lady allows," he whispers, and she thinks she may just faint. His eyes volley between hers, searching for something she isn't sure she has to give. "The lady has the real power, and we are helpless in her wake."

"Then, perhaps," she offers softly, "Theo should have warned you to be wary of me."

"Oh," he breathes, "he  _did_. I'm to stay far away from you, lest I lose myself to your numerous charms. I'm afraid it might already be too late to escape you, unfortunately. I may as well enjoy your warmth before you scorch me where I stand."

His lips are so close to her own, she could merely lean her weight onto her toes and join him, flesh to flesh. Hermione feels her eyes flutter and her breath stutter from her lungs. Who is this man who makes her forget all the ways in which a lady should behave? It is as though he rose from the very earth, clay made flesh like a mythical hero, set upon the world merely to entice her from her virtue.

With a deep, indulgent breath, consuming his scent of bergamot and clove as she regretfully leans away, Hermione gives Helios one last pat and steps around Draco into the sun. "Do be careful out in this heat. You seem of fair complexion. I fear you would easily burn, indeed."

She manages to keep her back straight and stride slow until she turns the corner and is facing the back gate. At this point, she picks up her skirts and hurries for the house, wishing she could confide her confused feelings with someone, but also relishing the secret tucked away in her heart.

—-

The stables become an easy place to find her. The library, of course, is often his first attempt, but on these warm summer days, Draco more often finds Miss Hermione Granger in the company of her favourite steed, though never astride its back.

He is careful in the coming weeks, never allowing himself to stand so close to scare her away. What began as a base attraction to her form and flesh has grown into intrigue, curiosity, and fondness.

Miss Granger is many things, not all of them conventionally pleasant, though he cannot seem to mind any aspect of her person. She sits in judgement even as she would champion tolerance. She speaks kindly to most, but is sharp-tongued in private. She carries herself with grace, a beautiful creature to be sure, but falters in step when distracted by her own thoughts or a book perilously read while in motion. She is also quick to temper, especially when he teases her or plays coy regarding his intentions.

And what  _are_  his intentions? Even Draco cannot find answer to that. He had decided early that no woman, even the very interesting Hermione Granger, was worth the risk of his return to France to reclaim his title. Yet, he seeks her out, a moth to flame, on every available occasion.

It is on their fifth quiet rendezvous that he asks, "Theodore mentioned he would not court you. Have you other suitors who might interrupt our very entertaining meetings?"

She seems surprised by the question, thought he isn't sure if it is shock he might ask something rather bold, or her own surprise she had not considered the same.

"I am not currently being pursued, no. Why? Have you an eligible gentleman to which you might introduce me?" She smirks, and he grins back. He finds her, as always, quite engaging.

"I'm afraid I've left all the eligible gentlemen back in France. I suppose you will have to continue flitting way your afternoons with only me for company."

"I can find no reason for complaint with that arrangement," she confesses quietly. She is nervous, fidgeting the apple in her hands until it falls to the dirt beneath her feet.

Draco leans over to retrieve it for her, bending low, then rising even closer than he had been before. He presents the apple between them and feels her delicate fingers brush his own as she accepts the offering. "Nor can I," he answers back. It is with great effort he does not wet his lips in anticipation of something that is not his to take.

From the house, a voice shatters the quiet around them, calling for Hermione's return. "It seems we are to make for home, then."

"Yes," he nods in agreement, not stepping away. He notes she also makes no move to hurry from his side.

"Perhaps I will see you when next we call on the Notts."

"I should like that, Miss Granger."

"Right… well, then. Thank you for a pleasant afternoon…" He watches as she takes a small step back and then circles around him, her head low and a blush suffusing her cheeks.

She makes it two, maybe three paces behind him when Draco turns abruptly, a muttered "Dash it all," under his breath. He is gentle when he lays a hand on her arm as not to startle, but turns her with confidence and leans in to press one insistent kiss to her lips. It is brief but full of intention; full of all the words he is not allowed to say. He feels her lips part beneath his, an exhale escaping between them as he pulls away. "Apologies," he offers, but his small smile belies the truth.

"You don't mean that," she notes with very little accusation, still seeming out of breath.

"No," he agrees, "I most sincerely do not. If this day is my last, I will have lived more fully than most, if only to know the feel of your kiss."

"That is high regard for a mere touch of lips," she comments softly.

The call comes again, Hermione's name again breaking through the private world they create together. "I really must go. They will look for me…"

He simply nods, sorry to see her take her leave, but elated she allowed him the infraction.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer days give way to autumn chill, and Hermione sees a bit less of her new and unlikely friend. Events at Nott Manor, without the benefit of picnic games and sunny afternoons, are more formal affairs, and it is not proper to be seen in the consistent company of young man, in particular a servant.

Though, often, she finds him, her eyes drawn to his: as if divine will pulls them together. Once, he catches her leaving from the drawing room, the festivities nearly at their end, the majority of the guests already having taken their leave.

Draco takes her hand in his, pulling her behind a column that mostly hides a small alcove from view.

When they are close, he leans in, much too close to mistake for anything but his wicked intentions. "I've missed our talks," he tells her, whispering into her ear.

"As have I," she agrees, and then, bravely, "and some other things in which we have previously engaged."

A smile is slow and crooked as it crawls across his face. This time, when he kisses her, he allows his hands to memorize the shape of her back, fitting into the curves of her and pulling her close.

—-

That evening, Draco sees her riding in his dreams, her curls streaming behind as she laughs freely, guiding Helios across the meadow under bright sun.

—-

"Hermione... the time approaches that a suitor will need to be found for you, darling. Your father... that is to say, your father and I, we may not always be able to care for you."

Hermione feels the air stick to her lungs and her blood cease in its infinite cycle. For just a moment, everything is still, and she cannot form words. Her mother is so transparent, and Hermione can tell something has happened to make her parents worry for their daughter's future.

They are sitting together in the solarium, a bit of knitting stilled in Hermione's lap. It is a rare thing that they are able to spend quiet and private time together, and now Hermione fears it was merely pretense on her mother's part so that they might have a difficult conversation.

"Is father well?" she asks, polite if a bit breathless, surprised the words do not slice open her throat for all the difficulty in releasing them. Surely, her father... her strong, wise, lovely father...

The hesitation is all she needs to know, and one loan sob hiccups from her mouth before she is able to stifle it. Her mother is at her side in but a moment. "There is nothing assured. The physicians are unsure as to the severity. Perhaps it is only this dreadful weather... Oh, do not despair, Hermione. We are only being cautious of your future."

She nods at her mother, basking in the feel of her mother's hands on her shoulders, physical comfort the likes of which she has hardly experienced since reaching womanhood. "I understand." And she does, in theory, but what will this mean for the tentative romance she has enjoyed in the stables and hidden rooms. "You will tell me if it grows worse?" Her mother nods at her, though Hermione is not entirely sure she believes the gesture to be genuine.

"Now, then," her mother says, standing up tall and returning to business in her typically logical way, "we are not of little means ourselves, so a match should be an easy thing. Tell me, what qualities do you prize most in a husband?"

Hermione considers this, thinking of the young man with grey eyes. What is it that makes her heart beat fast in his presence? What can she say that might even lead her to his side? Her mother speaks true; they are of no little finances, and a wealthy match is less of a concern than it might be for many women. Having no other siblings to claim her father's estate, it could easily be left to her and her future husband.

So she says carefully, "He must be of quick wit, of course." Her mother rolls her eyes with bemused affection, but Hermione ignores the gesture and continues. "Intelligent... a respect for literature and philosophy. I enjoy conversation more than the games and frivolity of my peers. I also should like to see some of the world one day. Perhaps a man without firm roots in London who might not mind a bit of gadding about. I do not need to be showered in finery. You know I am of simple tastes. To be comfortable and fed, to have security... those are fine enough. But I do not require a man who will cover me in silk and jewels."

"You are such a unique girl, my Hermione," her mother smiles down at her, laying one hand back on her shoulder. "Never prideful or vain, you are a credit to your family, and your future husband will be the most fortunate of men. We may not always have our choice in life, but I promise you, your father and I only wish for your happiness, and we shall endeavor to find a man who can give you these things."

The women exchange a warm look of understanding, Hermione feeling palpable relief with what this might mean for her future. She sees a crooked grin set into a face pale as cream and boldly lays her hand over her mothers, squeezing lightly. Now, to know if he would have her, or if his pretty words are only idle chatter.

—-

"Draco?"

Looking up from his work, Draco stills his hands in favour of attention to Miss Granger. Helios huffs when the brush ceases to slide along the coat on his flank. "Miss Granger?"

It is an unseasonably warm day, and they had escaped the usual party in favour of a return to the easy days they had enjoyed last summer. Hermione is perched upon a bit of low fence, and, though she had called for him, now seems to have trouble meeting his gaze. Abandoning Helios and stepping closer, he leans against the fence post to her right, waiting for her to find whatever words seem to have escaped her.

"I was just wondering aloud... do you have plans for yourself?"

He frowns a little, wrinkling his brow. "In what context? Have I plans to eat dinner this evening? Indeed, I do. Have I plans to wake tomorrow busy myself about the manor? Again, that I can foresee. Much beyond that, I'm afraid the only wish I have is that you might deign to visit with more frequency."

There is that blush he so adores, her cheeks coloring lightly with the faintest pale shade. "I meant... That is, you are exceedingly clever. Well read and learned. Have you no aspirations to do more? To build a life away from Nott Manor of your own?"

He feels his heart pick up its pace. Has she grown tired of his company? Does she suspect he is not what he portrays? Has he taken too many liberties with her? Many possibilities at war in his head, and he settles on deflection in case he is to be discovered as a fraud. "If you prefer to be left in your solitude while in the stables, I can do my work at other times."

"What... oh my, no! That is not what I meant at all! It was merely curiosity, and I apologize if I have caused offense."

Her eyes are round and sincere, and he believes her motives, while perhaps a bit suspect, are innocent of any animosity or cunning. "No offense taken, Miss Granger. I simply fear the day you might no longer seek my company." He offers her a smile that, his mother always told him, exudes limitless charm. His present company does not seem entirely immune to it as her blush deepens and she looks away, her perfect white teeth biting into her bottom lip.

"Draco… my mother has the notion that I should be more aggressively seeking a suitor."

He swallows, understanding the full ramifications of what such a development could mean for their companionship. He's careful, taking his time to form a gentlemanly response. "It is a typical consideration for a lady of your age and station and a concern of priority to your lady mother, I'm sure."

"Indeed. Unfortunately…" He watches her hesitate, chewing her poor lip and refusing to meet his eye. "Unfortunately, I do not seem to have any suitors currently. I fear if I cannot attract a gentleman of my own fancy, she will begin to make her own inquiries."

"Ah, I see." Draco isn't sure how to proceed, feeling as though he is walking amongst flames and any wrong step might leave him damaged. Does she desire his council? Is it something more? Draco Malfoy, son of Baron Lucius Malfoy, would see a blushing maiden speaking of suitors and take it upon himself to alleviate her fears that no man seeks her hand. Had he a name, a title he could still wear with pride, he would ask Theodore to visit Sir and Lady Granger this very day. To tell them of his intentions and speak to his worth.

But he lost that name, that title, and his worth when he decided he preferred to breathe free air than remain in a gilded cage, awaiting another chance at death. So, he is not bold, curling around himself as a snake to protect his heart, bleeding as it is, that he cannot answer her subtle flirtations in kind. "There is no shortage of noble and handsome men that I am sure would have you on their arm. You needn't worry that it must fall to your mother."

"I… no, I am not worried necessarily. I only…" She falters, studying his face that he knows is blank and cold. His father taught him this face, revealing nothing. "I only mention as frivolous conversation. Of course it is of no concern to you. Please, forget I had broached the subject."

She climbs gracefully from the fence and make her way toward the horse, brandishing an apple that he eagerly takes from her palm. "Helios seems groomed enough for today. Perhaps I will walk him about the yard. If you'll excuse me…"

Draco watches her lead the animal away, noting she does not look back in his direction. Her disappointment is obvious, and it serves to both elate him as much as it destroys his heart.

—-

"My dearest friend is brooding." Theo makes the observation, leaning against the doorframe of the library. Draco has been hiding in the room for most of the past few days, not particularly wanting to be faced with Miss Granger.

"I'm  _not_  brooding," he denies, setting the book aside with a scowl.

"Well, in fact you are, but you're also  _not_  my dearest friend. I refer, of course, to Lady Hermione. She refused even to play the piano forte this evening. A most uncommon gesture on her part."

"Then, perhaps, you should seek out her company instead of mine. Unless, did you need your boots polished,  _Master_  Nott?" Draco sneers at his cousin with a rather uncharitable amount of ire considering his circumstances.

Theodore frowns at him, his usual flippant demeanor vanishing. "What's happened? Neither you nor my dear Hermione are acting in character." His face darkens further. "Please do not tell me you have acted too forward. I warned you quite plainly she was not to be disrespected-"

"I've not," Draco cuts in quickly, feeling his anger begin to simmer beneath his skin. Thinking to deflect the entire confrontation, but also tasting bitterness lacing his anger, he goes on with a sneer, "And should you not be  _pleased_? You did not wish for me to enjoy her company, and here I am," he gestures to himself sitting alone in a vast room, " _not_  in her presence."

"Yes, it seems all is right with the world," Theo drawls back, unimpressed, "except my once vibrant and charming companion is shuffling about with despair in her eyes. Almost as if she's been cast aside…"

With a groan, realizing the man will not let him be, Draco growls, "And what would you have me do, then, Nott? She's speaking of being  _courted_. My time with her was always due to expire… as is  _yours_ ," he throws out, mean and blunt. "It's unseemly, a woman of her status being so familiar with young men. She is seeking a husband, and it will not be you nor I. Best start cultivating some new relationships."

With that, he picks up the book and stares. He's not reading, simply staring at a page and waiting to hear footsteps as Theodore leaves. Instead, silence is a thick blanket, smothering the room, until finally he hears, "She seeks to be matched?"

Draco looks back to find his cousin's brow furrowed and his eyes thoughtful. "You didn't know?"

Shaking his head, he denies, "She has not shared this with me, no. I was under the impression she was in no haste to marry…"

Back to the book a final time, Draco clips, "Yes, well, perhaps you didn't know her as well as you'd believed." This time, the footsteps come, and the hidden Malfoy heir squeezes his eyes closed in frustration and melancholy.

—-

"Hermione..." Francis Granger approaches, his arms outstretched for his daughter to take. Always affectionate with her father, much more so than she is with her mother, Hermione accepts his hands and leans in to kiss his cheeks.

It has been merely three weeks since her mother gave her the news that her father is ill. In that time she seems to have lost the affections of Theo's mysterious new man, as well as worried herself into a frenzy over her future and family. In truth, she is suffering in the quiet of her room, but offers her best self to her father.

Today seems to be a good day, pink in his cheeks and a lightness in his step. "Father. You're looking particularly happy today." It does her heart good, her breath swelling to fill her relieved chest, to see him in good health and good spirits.

"I have wonderful news, my dear. Please," he gestures toward the eastern parlour, "join me, won't you? We've much to discuss."

She follows only find that her mother is already seated, a tea service laid out for them to share. The woman stands when they enter, smiling softly. Always reserved, much more so than her husband, but Hermione can still see that her mother is also pleased.

When they've all settled, tea prepared as they like it and general pleasantries out of the way, the head of household begins.

"I've just received correspondence from my old friend Professor Slughorn. You remember, don't you, darling? You met last August. I had approached him, and his response is such a relief for our family."

Hermione nods, mind racing. Was the professor an expert in the medical field? She can't recall with absolute certainty, but it seems the likeliest conclusion. What else could possibly bring her father such relief? Perhaps the has news of her father's health. A cure for his ailments... She tries to stifle a smile, not wanting to get ahead of herself, but her parents can see the change in her posture.

Lady Granger reaches to lay her hand atop Hermione's in a rare display of affection. "Oh, my Hermione, I am so pleased for you."

"For me? Should you not be pleased for Father? For yourself?"

"Oh, of course! Don't misunderstand: your happiness is our happiness. But, oh, Hermione, it is everything you wished. So few young ladies are afforded the luxury."

Hermione freezes. The conclusion she had initially reached is not remotely supported by what has followed. She responds carefully. "Yes, of course. And, just what will this… luxury entail?"

"Oh, well, a summer wedding, I suspect. Once this dreadful weather has broken. We must let you be reintroduced as well, a proper courtship and betrothal. Such a brief meeting before, but, I assure you, he is fully aware of the life you expect to lead. Your father and I were most upfront."

Lady Granger looks to her husband for assurance, and he nods in answer. "Quite. Only the best for you, my dove. Everything in life you want should be yours. I believe he is planning to take you to visit Scotland once the wedding has commenced. We made him well aware of your desire to travel." Lord Francis winks at Hermione, and somehow she manages not to let out the sob choking her throat.

This was not what she meant at all. How could they possibly believe this is the life she covets, married to a man over twice her age? Simpering and weak and altogether a weasel in sheep's clothing.

"It was no easy task, I assure you," Hermione's mother is chuckling at her. "Finding a clever and learned man, not given to frivolity, willing and, in fact, pleased to travel,  _and_  in want of a wife? We are so fortunate we were able to accommodate all requests."

Looking from one parent to the other, Hermione is at a loss as to her response. Should she say "thank you"? She supposes she should, but the words won't come. Her gaze lands back on her father and he gives her a sad smile. "It makes me endlessly happy, dear girl, that I can leave this world with the security of your happiness. No man should be so fortunate as I have been."

Hermione loses the battle at that and sobs loudly into her palm. With no mind for decorum, she rounds the low table and falls down beside her father, throwing her arms around his neck. "Hermione, darling, what is this…?"

Unsure though he sounds, he holds her tight, and she cries into his chest, choking out something in regards to loving her father very much. He pats her and whispers affection for his only child as she weeps for her father as well as herself; for the possibility of romance she once believed she might have. It is lost now to the reality of an unfeeling union, bound by her father's love.

It is nearly half of an hour before she is able to stem the tears and play at happiness. Hermione thanks her family for their kind and generous efforts, recognizing they sincerely believe they've given her everything she ever wanted.

—-

Winter passes slowly, Hermione becoming nearly reclusive compared to the social and confident young woman she has long been. If her parents notice, they do not say. She would assume they believe her to be worried for her father. This is true, of course, but it is a despair that runs deeper. Losing her father, marrying much younger than she'd hoped to a man much older than she could have imagined…

And then, there is Draco. Hermione, in her young years, had experienced very little in the way of affairs of the heart. A tiny kiss stolen amongst the orchards, a brush of hands, glancing through her lashes; all the innocent flounderings of youth had hardly mattered when she learned what it was to feel her heart race. To seek out his smell on the fabric of the Nott library fireside. To look for his grey eyes in a sea of faces, only to blush and hide her smile when found.

She had believed her beau was as enamoured as she, only to see him run at the first mention of the future. Perhaps it was unfair of her, short a time as they had been acquainted. It had just seemed they were such a fit, two halves that slotted together like a key in a lock, and she had let herself believe the impossible…

It is February when she next is in the presence of her potential husband. Hermione is escorted by her mother, a typical Nott household soirée erupting in the main dining hall, to the receiving area upon the arrival of Mister Slughorn.

"My dear Lady Granger," he croons, extending his hands so he might take her mother's in his own. "You are a vision as always. Such a pleasure to see you again."

Lady Granger gives him an indulgent smile, allowing him to take her hand briefly, before gesturing to her daughter. "And of course you will remember Hermione from our last evening together?"

The man turns to her, red in the face from the cold and grinning his simpering grin. "How would one possibly forget such a comely face. It is my sincere honor to see you again, young Lady Granger."

It is with effort that she neither bristles nor allows her body to cringe. "The honor is mine, sir," she returns, allowing her hand to be taken in his and brushed against his lips. They are cold and her instinct is to pull away. Somehow, she survives the meeting, all the while trying to imagine herself as a wife; as, she can hardly even think it, a  _mother_.

...As sharing a marital bed.

What will her life look like, married to this man? She watches him more closely that evening, trying to find something of interest to which she might cling. He is learned, that is true, but he tends to drone upon a subject until the room at large is in discomfort. He is friendly, but there is an air about him that he is always seeking approval, seeking acceptance, and, perhaps, seeking advancement.

Which would explain his interest in the only child of a prominent family line.

Once the meal is at its end, Hermione finds the guests settling into private conversations and smaller assemblies. She has not seen Draco this evening. In fact, she's caught barely a glimpse in many weeks. She wonders if he has been sent away, but has not the courage to to make inquiries of her oldest friend. Theodore might ask questions.

It doesn't much matter that she hadn't asked. As it happens, he has questions anyway, a whisper directed into her ear.

"Why is Professor Lobcock still taking a seat at our dining table, hmm?"

Theo has sidled up beside her where Hermione is standing and making her best attempt at being invisible, lest she is drawn into another conversation in which she must feign acceptance of the Scotsman's mild advances. Now, she blushes at her friend's crude language.

"Do not call him that," she admonishes, her tone as quiet as his. "And I find it a pointless endeavor to answer a question unless you truly do not know."

"It's true then. He means to court away my dearest Miss Granger and leave me bereft and wanting."

She snickers at him softly. "I hardly think you'll mourn me like the dead." But when she turns to face him, his face is serious.

"Will he not take you away to Scotland, then?" When she doesn't reply in the negative, he goes on, "It is no little thing to be taken so far away. Perhaps you did not appreciate my dramatics, but dead and never to be seen again are not so terribly different."

She had not taken much time to think of any specifics of the potential arrangement. Worries over her father's health, as well as the unsavory lack of affection she feels for her suitor, have mostly filled her head.

As well, of course, as the vacancy left by her easy summer and autumn days with young Draco.

"No discussion has been made of the particulars, such as where we might live," she tries, somewhat deflecting. "I am sure we would remain in England for a time, while my father… to spend time with my parents."

Not even Theo has been told of her father's health, the severity still in question by their physician. She barely catches herself now, knowing her tone had taken to melancholy and her face likely fallen.

Theois eyeing her; Searching her gaze as though he caught her slip.

Hermione looks away, gazing about the room and searching for a distraction, and finds it in a glimpse of platinum hair just leaving the doorway.

"He can't stay away," is mumbled by her side. Distraction seems to have worked, but only in bringing about another conversation she'd not wanted to have. "Draco," Theo explains. "He has been asking after you. Your health and happiness."

Staring at the empty doorway, yearning to adventure throughout the manor until she might find him to properly see his face, she asks, "And what have you told him?"

When she looks back, he has continued to study her and answers, "Very little. Though, I fear I might, now, know the answer."

She takes a sip of her cordial.

—-

"She is set to marry. Officially."

Draco is gazing out a window in the Nott's southern parlor, staring intently toward the stables and lost in memories of summer days. "Who?" he asks, distractedly, imagining her eyes and her delicate hands patting down her favorite beast's flank, Helios knickering and nodding at her in appreciation.

"Our Miss Granger, of course."

Perhaps the scholars have it wrong and the earth is flat after all. He's certainly sure it is no longer spinning, at the very least. He turns slowly, finding his cousin looking somber in the doorway. His voice, hoarse and affected, shows his hand. "Official?...A suitor has been found so soon?"

With a nod, Theo steps into the parlour and closes the door behind him. "Indeed, and I am none too pleased."

Draco frowns, feeling at once devastation and even jealousy. Perhaps his friend had more interest in the lady than he'd led him to believe. "And what difference to you then, cousin? You've made your absence of interest known."

"Because,  _cousin_ ," he returns with mocking, "it is that smarmy Scot blunderbuss, Slughorn, that she is expected to wed."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Draco argues, "That cannot be true. She would have no reason to make such an ill choice."

"I fear, perhaps, choice is something she lacks. I certainly do not believe her to be happy with the arrangement."

"Miss Granger does not strike as a lady to agree with something that would not bring her happiness. Nor does Lord Granger seem a beastly father who might insist."

"There is something rotten in Denmark, to quote the bard. She is keeping something from me, and that has never occurred between us." Theo levels Draco with a hard look, approaching and looming his lank and stretched frame over his friend. "If you care for her, Draco Malfoy, now might be a time to act."

He steps around, escaping Theo's stance and scoffing as he paces. "What would you have me do? I'm a servant," he sneers. "I've no power nor currency."

"You  _could_ ," the man presses. "Nothing stops you from reclaiming your name-"

"Except my desire to continue to breathe," Draco interrupts, terror washing over, his mind flashing to the dead faces of Frenchmen piled around him.

"Coward," Theo spits in accusation, and Draco turns his face away. "Sit by, then," he goes on, voice raised. "But I will not remain idle while my dearest friend lets her life be gifted away."

He storms from the room, standing tall and walking heavy, leaving Draco to consider his words.

Is she gifting her life away? Theo is not known for understanding the heart of women. It is possible she is happy with her future. He's a professor, as Draco understands it. Could Miss Granger have found an intellectual match?

Conflicted, filled with sorrow and indecision, Draco goes back to staring at the stables. He finds one of the boys walking Helios in the snow, and imagines her once again, missing her voice and her face more than he'd even realized.

—-

When Theodore called him a coward, it did not sit well with Draco. What does Theo know of bravery? It was not him that had fought in battle. Theo had not felt the sting of sword or blow of the blade. What right did he have?

Yet, in this, he knows the man was correct. He has been a coward, and now his punishment is to watch Miss Granger smile at another man. It is March, and the Scotsman is still hanging about, wearing out his very thin welcome. Draco has gathered that the man has not formally secured a betrothal, but is negotiating terms with her parents while simultaneously spending time becoming acquainted with his possible intended.

Draco clenches his fists and grinds his teeth. Often.

This afternoon, he sees them in the garden, the day relatively warm for the first time in weeks. After what seems a pleasant enough chat, the man kisses her knuckles and shows himself to the gate. Draco watches, first the couple, then the lady once her beau is gone. Once he's turned the corner, she wipes her hand on her gown.

It is a straw on a camel's back perhaps, but that insignificant gesture steels Draco's resolve, and he finds himself stalking toward her. She's sitting stiffly on a stone bench, unaware of his approach. It is only when he is close enough to speak, he sees her own hands clenched on her thighs.

"A fair day, M'lady. The sun is a welcome sight."

She jumps slightly, startled, then settles back more slouched than before. "Indeed," she says, but he doesn't think she truly agrees.

"I noticed your betrothed has come to call. Or, perhaps, it is you who sought his companionship…"

"He's not my betrothed," she counters, but it is weak and coloured with dark emotion.

"Not yet," Draco offers, drifting closer and sitting on an adjacent bench.

"No," she agrees softly, "not yet. I apologize, but did you require something of me?" She looks at him finally, defiance in her eyes.

"I require nothing but the pleasure of your company, Miss Granger. We've not spoken the season long."

"No, we haven't." Hermione arches a brow in challenge, and he knows exactly why.

Clearing his throat, Draco looks away, out into the sun-kissed gardens, the beginnings of green peeking through the brown of winter. "The fault is mine, I know. I apologize for my absence. It became… painful to continue as we were."

She shakes her head at him, dismayed. "Why would it ever be painful, sir? Was my company such a chore?"

"Of course not! It was more…" He stops, searching for words. "Theodore, quite publically, does not seek your hand. As such, your friendship with him, though perhaps inappropriate to some, carried no scandal. I feared ours might begin to mar your reputation."

She blinks at him. "You refused to converse with me because of what others might have to say?"

Still studying the landscape, Draco swallows, his head slowly falling into a nod.

He hears her take a breath, and they sit in quiet while she collects her own thoughts.

"I know you've not known me as long as Theodore, but I had hoped you were familiar enough to know how little I think of the wagging tongues of others."

"Yet, it does not stop the wagging nor any harm that comes of it. What if your new beau had… misgivings as to your virtue? I might have lost you your marriage."

She snorts at him. That lovely, completely unladylike sound he used to draw from her. "And what a sheer tragedy would  _that_  have been."

The opening he had wanted, he pushes forward. "Are you not satisfied with your intended, Miss Granger? He seems a scholarly sort, which I imagined would appeal to your intellect."

"He's scholarly," she allows. "Unfortunately, that is the end of a very short of list of qualities I admire."

"Yet, you choose his courtship?"

"When only one path lay before you, it is not a choice, simply the road you must walk."

Draco looks at her then, finding her looking back. "Surely," he says quietly, "a lady of your numerous charms, you had many a choice."

Holding his eyes, she says very plainly, "I had allowed a foolish hope that I had one, but it appears I had misread his interest."

Him. She's talking about him. Draco could shout to the heavens, except he knows it was never a future on which she would be allowed to decide. "Never misread, M'lady. Only miscalculated. Interest means nothing without a life to offer."

"I have a life," she says, and it is petulant and charming all at once. "I have an estate and inheritance. I've only need for a companion."

"Your family…" he starts carefully, "I doubt that would agree with your assessment. I know the way of these things."

"And if you are wrong?" she challenges, rising from her bench and standing above him. She's intimidating for her petite frame. Draco stands if only to match the power in the figure she cuts.

"If I am wrong, then I've ruined everything." He pauses, searching her warm eyes, allowing for only a moment to believe the future she paints." "But it seems I am not. Master Slughorn might be many unsavory things, but he has wealth enough and is an authority with respect. Your family did not choose a pauper for you."

"If I ask them? If I deny the arrangement with the professor and ask for leave to choose my own path? Would you walk it with me?"

"Such a cruel woman," he murmurs, lifting a hand to brush a curl from her cheek.

"Cruel?" Her breath hitches and Draco imagines he can hear the pounding of her heart, beating in rhythm with his own.

"Positively wicked to offer such hope." He smiles then, a sad expression that is not reflected in his eyes.

"I've missed you," she whispers, and Draco could choke on how much he wants from her in this moment.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" His smile melts into something more sincere when she giggles at him, her own expression as radiant as the winter sun.

"Hermione!"

Draco steps back and looks behind him to find Theodore walking briskly up the path. Hermione straightens her gown, though it is hardly out of place.

"Mister Nott?" Concern is evident in her voice, more so when her friend brandishes a parchment.

"The professor. He's made his formal request for your hand." Pausing to give a dark and angry look at Draco, he finishes, "And your father has accepted."


	3. Chapter 3

Lord Granger shakes his head, looking taxed behind the mahogany desk in his study. "I am afraid it is binding, my dove. Unless a suitor were to counter with an offer that could not be denied, the wedding will commence in two months."

"But… that is so little time." She feels like a little girl again, near weeping and helpless as the world shifts around her.

"I should like to ensure I might see you in your bridal gown," her father tells her, and that makes the tears fall, stubborn as she was to keep them at bay.

Rising from his chair and wrapping one arm around his daughter, he shushes her lightly. "I know it is a frightful thing, to grow into a woman. To join your husband's house. But you, my brave girl, will flourish wherever you may live."

"Where I may live?"

"Well, in Scotland, of course. The professor has only stayed so long in order to negotiate your hand."

She pulls back from his hold, gaping at her father whom she loves more than anything. "No! I can't leave you! Surely he must know I would want to stay until...that is…" She sobs once again, unable to finish the thought, to put words to the reality her family must face. Francis Granger doesn't answer, just holds her close once again, and lets her weep.

—-

"Draco, you have no choice!" Theo is railing at him now, pacing up and down the library and uncaring if his voice is heard by his family or staff. "If you do nothing, she will be taken away! And do you imagine that great Jackanape will keep the Granger property once her father has passed? Do you want that for her?"

"Of course not," Draco denies, vehement and angry himself. Hermione finally confided in Theo that the health of Francis Granger is, in part, the cause for such rushed nuptials, and Draco's heart breaks for her. "Do you believe I would not bid for her hand if I had the means?  _You_  could court her,  _Lord_  Nott!"

"You craven, selfish fool," his cousin spits in response. "You know she does not care for me in that way! And she never will! But you, you complete buffoon, with  _you_  she might actually be happy."

"And if I decided you are correct? If I tell you she is worth dying for, which is what reclaiming my name might mean, just what do you recommend? Come on, Theodore, you have the answers! Shall I send word to dear Lucius that I ran from his Emperor's ranks to hide in England? He will disown his son before giving me a fortune for a bride... If he doesn't have me killed first. You do not know my father," he finishes in an angry rasp.

They stand a moment, panting and staring each other down. Finally, Theo shakes his head in disgust. "She's worth it. She's worth  _anything_. If you won't help her, maybe I'll do as you suggest and marry her myself. At least she will have a man who sees her value."

"I see her value," he says, emphatic, and suddenly feeling spent of rage. "I simply do not have the currency to be worth her."

"I might have argued as to your worth, but if you insist on this inaction, perhaps you are correct."

Once again, Draco is left to his thoughts when his cousin tears from the room, the door slamming against the wall in his wake.

—-

A month passes quickly, and Hermione sees Draco in the gardens frequently again. Though he no longer ignores her so resolutely, he does not seem to relax in her presence. He is kind, asking after her health, but is careful not to spend too much time alone in her presence.

Perhaps, she reasons, it is all for the best. Her childish fantasy of love and happiness is not meant to be. She will marry an aging professor and relocate where she has no family, no friends, and live a solitary existence with only her books for solace.

She was assured by her new betrothed weeks ago that his library is unmatched. "Even better than this Nott fellow's. Though he has a fine little hobby," he had gone on, smugly, "you will be helpless but to admire the collection  _I_ have amassed." His droning had continued, just one more in a history of conversations that had very much to do with braggadocio and very little to do with courting.

Hermione cries often; hiding away in her rooms or the Granger gardens where she will not be disturbed, she is in mourning before a body has even been laid to rest. Her father's health continues to weigh on her mind, now mired with the tragedy that she will not even be allowed to visit him in his final days.

Her figure is slim, food no longer holding much interest on most days. The professor, having secured his prize, has travelled home to ready a place for her in Scotland. She is grateful not to have the constant strain of his presence, but it only serves to remind her how much she dreads being his wife.

More days pass, and Hermione is fitted for the gown in which she will marry Horace Slughorn. Making her  _Hermione_  Slughorn. She shivers when she thinks on it, even the name feeling tarnished and distasteful. Her dress must be tailored twice, her loss of weight making it hang from her shoulders. "Dear girl, you need t' eat," the seamstress tells her. "Quite normal, bein' jittery before your big day, o' course, but men want a bit o' meat on yer bones."

Hermione feels her stomach turn at the thoughts of why Professor Slughorn would find weight on her to be pleasing and the liberties he will soon be legally given with her body.

With only two weeks before her wedding day, a missive is delivered to Francis Granger, his face going blank as he reads.

When he looks up to find Hermione and her mother watching, he clears his throat. "It seems we have another suitor for our Hermione."

If her heart had stopped beating, she feels it restart now, heavy and fast, a single pound repeating against her bones.

Theodore? She had hoped, as despair had clung to her, hoped he might consider her hand if only to save her from her fate. She knows he adores her, just as she adores him. And while Theo's proclivities do not include those of her persuasion, he will not see her doomed to loneliness and devastation.

"He's travelling and will arrive tomorrow. I've no idea how he might even have known of you, but he's travelled some distance."

He looks up, seeing his daughter and studying her. "Is this… welcome news?"

Hermione is not sure how to respond. Not Theodore then. Another, unknown party? It is certainly not terrible, her pending nuptials feeling every bit a noose closing around her neck, but what of this new suitor? What if he is a worse fate?

So, she answers with bald honesty. "I suppose I cannot know which fate holds more appeal until I've met him."

Her parents exchange a look before, eventually, her mother rises. "Come, dear, let us find you a dress for the meeting." She allows herself to be led back to her chambers, gowns being pulled in quick succession until her mother draws out a frock the color of clear skies. She's not worn it in two years, but with her new slimmer figure, it is one of the few more formal gowns that might fit.

Besides, of course, her wedding dress.

When she sleeps that evening, she isn't sure if she is hopeful or dreading the following day. At the least, she can take solace that her worst future is with the professor and his home in distant land. Her lot can only improve from here.

—-

 _Austere_  would be the word to describe the man in the Granger's parlor. He is quiet and stern, and Hermione is nearly terrified at the idea of speaking to him, less likely more intimate relations.

"Ah, Hermione, come meet our guest."

She is led in the room by her mother, her father taking her hand once she enters and directing her the rest of the way to the center of the room. The stranger stands and stares her down. "Hermione, this is Baron Lucius Malfoy."

"A pleasure," she demures, offering a curtsy to their guest.

"Mademoiselle Granger," he answers back, a French tongue thickening his words and not sounding at all to be a man interested in wedding a bride. "I've come on behalf of my son," he says, straight to the heart of the matter. She almost appreciates the lack of pleasantries. This is a business deal, after all.

"If I may, Sir," Francis interrupts, "Why has your son not attended the meet as well?"

"My son," Lucius sneers, "is  _indisposed_. However, I am assured by my cousin Thoros that Mademoiselle Granger would be a pleasing match."

Nott? Theo's father is involved? Surely this man's son cannot be a brute if her family friend would encourage the match. Though her heart is still wrapped up in grey eyes, she feels a modicum of relief that she might avoid life with the professor.

"Though," the man has continued, "I do not personally see why such a large dowry is required." The once over he pans down her frame is quite unwelcome, and Hermione bristles.

Her father does as well, if his clipped tone is any indication. "She has a previous suitor. Any new arrangement will need to be considered a superior match to go forward."

"I see," the man says, either uncaring or unbelieving if that is true. "No matter. My wife insists I secure my son's happiness, and that is my only aim. Here," he offers a parchment to Lord Granger to take. "My offer; everything required plus a small increase for haste. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a pressing matter to attend."

With a nod that is barely even courtesy, he breezes past the Grangers and shows himself to the door.

In stunned silence, the family loses itself in thought. It is her mother who speaks first. "We've a choice to make, then…"

Clearing his throat, her father speaks. "It is, in fact, a generous sum, however...better the devil you know…?" He looks at his wife for confirmation, appearing a bit lost.

"You suggest we should ignore this new offer and abide by the Professor's sum? Hermione?"

She looks up to see her parents both looking at her with anxious faces. "I don't… I'm unsure."

"Take the afternoon, darling. We will discuss further at dinner." With a nod of agreement to her mother, Hermione slips out of the room.

—-

Draco is listless. It is a constant state since he heard that Miss Granger's wedding was all but accomplished, the agreement settled between all parties concerned. He has also noticed she seems unwell, and he hurts for her. Just after the day they were interrupted in the garden, after Theo had taken him to task for his cowardice, he had gone to Thoros Nott, begging for a sum to bid for her hand. Draco had promised that, on the death of the elder Malfoys, he would not make any claim at all to the inheritance, allowing the entirety of the estate to be allocated to their Nott cousins. The man had sympathized, but said he did not have the capital to invest in such a future, needing to reserve funds to find a match for Theodore in the coming years.

Draco had, next, entreated Theo to make good on his threat to court Lady Hermione. At least she would be near. She would be safe and with her family as she wanted. A cordial and polite marriage, simply without romance, is more than some people are able to boast.

He doesn't sleep most nights, thoughts and plans swirling in his exhausted mind.

Draco had considered taking up a trade to earn his own fortune, but realized as soon as he'd thought it that the time required was too long. He considered stealing enough, but fear of the gallows kept him honest.

Finally, only three weeks before Hermione's wedding, swallowing all pride and without regard for his hard-fought freedom, Draco had drafted a letter to his father.

He had tried to give it to Theo, begging him to send it by the fastest means he could afford, but Theo had given him an even expression and said, "It's too late, Draco. You know this will never reach him in time." And he  _had_  known, but it had been a testament to his desperation that he had made the attempt. Watching her waste away, feeling himself breaking for her, he would have faced his father a thousand times for merely a chance at her happiness. He hates himself for his hesitation.

Less than two weeks now before she is wed and gone forever. It is on a quiet morning in Nott Manor, Draco's clothes hanging sloppily from his frame and dark circles beneath his eyes, that he stumbles through the main house on his way to the kitchens and stops short when he sees the party in attendance.

His father.

Baron Malfoy is seated with Thoros Nott, Theo just to his father's left. When his footsteps echo into the room, then coming to an abrupt halt, three sets of eyes turn toward him, and all three men stand.

"Draco." His father, known as a man who is guarded and aloof, chokes out his son's name in relief and hastily steps forward.

"Père?" Draco sounds confused to his own ears and looks for Theo. His cousin is looking back at him in challenge.

"Your father came straight away, as soon as he received my message last month. It's such fortune your memory returned to you, is it not?"

Draco looks from his cousin to his father, but doesn't have time to react when Lucius crushes him into an embrace that steals his breath, tears filling his eyes. In all his life, Draco's father had never embraced him. His arms circle around his father's back, and he clings like a young boy.

When they part, Lucius places his hands on Draco's shoulders, holding him at arm's length. "I cannot imagine the harrowing journey you must have had. It is a divine miracle you came to our cousin's house, not knowing who you were."

"Yes…" he agrees, unsure. "A miracle, indeed." His mind is turning faster than his thoughts are realized. Finally, he settles on a question that seems without peril. "Where is Mother? Is she well?"

Lucius waves away his concern. "More than. I expect she will arrive within mere days. She was quite eager to join me, but the vessel I boarded in Normandy was of questionable construction. I requested she wait for a more secure ship to take her."

Draco looks again to Theo, glancing over his father's shoulder to find the young man gesturing that he carry on with some untold conversation. It does not take long for Draco to realize what it is.

"Father, you've come at a fortuitous time. I have found a lady of impeccable charm that I would make my wife."

"Oh, oui. La fille de Granger... I was informed. Your offer for her hand has been made. We can finalize the arrangements in the morning."

Draco's eyes are wide, and he can't seem to find a response. Mistaking his quiet for something else, Lucius pulls him into another embrace. "A miracle, mon cher fils. You need not speak; I feel it, too."

—-

Hermione sleeps very little that night. At dinner, she had pushed food around her plate and listened to her parents argue over the choices laid before her. The Malfoys of France offered a generous sum, but on behalf of a man she's never met. He is young, they understand, which is an advantage over Master Slughorn, but his father refused to guarantee his health, stating he had been through some difficulties of late. What if her new husband suffers afflictions of his body or mind?

With the professor, the unknown is removed from the equation. He is older, a braggart, and generally a source of irritation to those around him. This new suitor is younger, wealthy, but otherwise a great mystery.

These thoughts led her to insomnia and a rather poor disposition the following day. It is with this mood she greets her oldest friend. He's seating in their small receiving room, smiling at her cheerily. She mostly closes the door behind her, regardless of what polite society may say. "My dearest, Lady Granger."

"I've no interest in your glib or flippant persona this morning, Theodore."

He frowns at her, but his displeasure doesn't seem entirely sincere. "But, Hermione," he mock pouts at her, "I'd have thought to find you in good spirits. It isn't every day a suitor knocks on your door."

"Apparently for me, it is more often than your average lady," she gripes out, crossing her arms over her chest.

Theo laughs and stands to greet her. He kisses both cheeks and then cups her upper arms gently. "Hermione, I've not come alone to visit. I bring a guest to see you."

"Oh?" She looks around at the empty room, just on the verge of asking if this guest is incorporeal, when footsteps echo down the corridor, and the door creaks open.

The softest of platinum hair and eeriest of grey eyes greet her gaze as Theo's servant steps into the room.

His attire is decidedly more proper today. Gone are the servant's frocks, replaced with the finest of fall front trousers and a beautifully fitted tailcoat. He looks different, but also entirely Draco.

While it is a pleasure to see him (and equivalently painful), this is not what she had imagined. She turns back to Theo. "When you said guest…" she prompts.

"Just so," is Theo's irritating, smug answer. Perhaps  _he_  should marry Slughorn.

An admonishment is resting on her tongue, but Theo, the utter snake, is sliding around her toward the door before she can utter a word. "I will let Mister Malfoy explain. I've no desire to be a part of your harpy screams when you know you've been had."

"What?... Mister Malf-  _Theo_!" But he is gone, leaving only a rather nervous looking Draco in his wake.

She huffs and turns to the servant. "I suppose you are here to take me to Mister Malfoy, then?"

With a clearing of his throat, he manages, "Not exactly."

Hermione feels her eyes narrow. "I feel you know more than you are saying."

"Lady Granger…." She watches him steel himself, eyes squeezed shut for a moment. "Hermione, I have an apology to offer and a question to ask. Your forgiveness will be vital to the question."

Hermione sighs, angry with herself for the aching of her heart. She hasn't time for this; Hermione has a marriage offer to answer. "And what grievance should I have with you to forgive?"

"I have not been entirely free of falsehood in regards to my name."

"Your name isn't Draco?" she asks, confused, her brow wrinkling.

"It is," he rushes to assure. "Though, I never offered my surname."

"And  _that_  is?" She is growing impatient as he lingers, stalling each word and phrase.

A long beat of silence, and Hermione is on the verge of bursting from her own skin. She feels her ire build and is fit to explode when he finally answers with a deep breath.

"Malfoy. My full name is Draco Lucius Malfoy, and I've come to ask, Lady Hermione Granger, for your hand."

—-

Draco wasn't sure what to expect, fully prepared to grovel for his pretense, to beg forgiveness for being untrue. What he had  _not_  expected, was for the love of his life to calmly walk from the room in search of her parents. Trailing after her, as well-trained as her Helios, they find Lucius and the Grangers in the solarium.

"Father, Mother, Lord Malfoy. I have reached a decision and would like to accept the generous offer from the Malfoy family. I shall write of my regrets to Professor Slughorn."

And with that, she turns on her heel and vanishes.

Everyone blinks. Once. Twice. Then Lucius takes to his feet. "Well, then, such a...  _pragmatic_ child. I believe you've chosen well, Draco. Shall we prepare for your mother's arrival? Thoros will not have the amenities ma chère femme will require, no doubt."

Having no other course, Draco bows to the Grangers and follows in his father's wake.

In the days that come, Hermione insists upon keeping her original wedding plans, only the groom and his family to change. Narcissa arrives just in time to take over many details, but declares the bride "acceptable enough"; high praise from the Malfoy matriarch.

Draco sees his intended virtually none at all. He mostly frets, pulling Theo into private conversations. "Do you think she means to do me harm? I've never seen her angered, cousin, but this…  _poise_  she shows… she's terrifying."

Theo just laughs and claps his arm. "You wanted her, my friend. All that is Hermione Granger is about to be yours."

"Theodore, what is she thinking? Is she speaking to you? Theodore…!" But his cousin merely walks away, chuckling like a villain.

—-

"Are you ready?" Narcissa is looking over her son, tears sitting in the corners of her eyes. While most of the world sees only a cold and calculating aristocrat, Draco is afforded rare glimpses of a woman who, he has never had reason to doubt, loves him deeply.

"I am nervous, Mother. I fear that… I may have angered my bride."

"Because she does not speak to you?" his mother inquires, her brow lifting. He only nods in response. "I am sure there will be time enough to talk this evening, mon petite chou. Whatever you have done was not cause enough for her not to accept your petition."

"Unless she means to smother me in my sleep," he mutters, and Narcissa Malfoy laughs.

"Such an imagination! Come. Let us meet your bride. I have a surprise for you after the ceremony."

Hermione is, as Draco had known she would be, a vision in ivory and gold. To think he nearly lost her, that she would have approached another man in her finery, makes his heart clench. Unfortunately, she is as cold and removed in his presence on their wedding day as she has been for the week. She does not speak to him, but repeats her vows to the officiant. She does not look at him, but instead concentrates on their bound hands and the other faces in attendance.

At the festivities that follow, Draco learns of his parents' surprise. The Malfoys, having forged a friendship with the Grangers in the very short time they have spent in England, have decided to purchase a summer home in Wiltshire. This will allow them to foster kinship as well as spend time with Draco since he will "obviously be staying with his new bride." Hermione perks up considerably at this, tearfully hugging her father, but she still refuses to look Draco's way.

They are long, endless hours, watching her from afar as she dances and laughs with Theodore or speaks to her mother in hushed tones. Draco is miserable, even as he feels elation that she is his wife. Tonight, he repeats, a mantra in his head, tonight he will grovel if needed and win back the affections of this woman whom he loves with his whole heart.

Midnight has struck and gone when the last guests leave, and Hermione and Draco are shown to their bridal suite. The room has been offered by the Nott family since the Malfoys are far from home, a guest suite with luxurious design.

Hermione enters first and Draco follows after, turning to close the door behind him and leaning his palms on the wood. He breathes deep ready to beg, to entreat mercy. He will offer her everything he has and more to see her smile, bright as the winter sun, gifted to him once more.

When he turns, she crashes into him, arms twining around his neck. "Finally!" And her mouth seals over his.

He could devour her, starved as he has been for her affection. Their first intimate married kiss, and he throws himself into it like a man dying. He laps at her lip, testing her boundaries, and finds she has none for him when her lips part.

When her hands move from his neck, palms resting against his chest and fingertips scratching lightly at him through his coat, Draco pulls away to lay his forehead against hers. "My love?"

She hums in reply, fingers playing with the short hairs on his neck. "I had thought… You have been cross with me, Hermione. Should we not speak?"

"Cross with you?" She leans back, her eyes searching his.

"Well, yes. You've not spoken to me. Hardly looked at me. I know I did you great disservice with my lack of honesty. But you must know, I will be nothing but truthful with you, I swear it. You are most treasured, and I respect and appreciate you, my Hermione."

She blinks up at him before finally releasing one of her darling, very unladylike, little laughs. "Cross with you? Draco, you never lied to me. I never asked your name and you never gave it. By my calculations, I am an equal party in my ignorance. As for this past week, I could hardly look at you for want of tonight. Draco Malfoy, if I had been able to corner you into a private room, I fear you would not have a maiden in your bed."

It is his turn to be struck with silence. Slowly, a smile starts to creep on his face, but abruptly stops. "Wait. Was Theodore aware you did not wish me ill?"

"Of course." She smiles. "He knew of my elation. I tell him everything."

"That Godless bastard…"

"Now, now, none of that. He is, afterall, the one who summoned your father. I think you can call it a draw, could you not?"

Draco searches her face, looks into the eyes of his beautiful wife, and agrees that, he would suppose, Theo can live to see another day.

"Now, Monsieur Malfoy, take the maiden to your bed."

With no hesitation, Draco does as he is bid.


End file.
